roots (let them latch, let them grow)
by Younger Dr. Grey
Summary: or, how Charley begins to process the revelation about the Bordelon land and the idea of truly moving home. Takes place immediately after 1x10.


.

 **about...** how Charley begins to process the revelation about the Bordelon land and the idea of truly moving home; takes place immediately after 1x10

.

.

The land, Charley starts in a text. Her fingers glide over the screen as she stares with eyes unfocused. She shifts her phone to only her right hand so she can squeeze along the bridge of her nose. The land — her daddy's land, the one that Ernest fought so hard to love and tend and protect — came from their family's fight to have something after slavery. And it's not that Charley couldn't have put the pieces together. A lot of land in the South came out of previous slave plantations, but to actually know that these acres were the same ones her family's worked since the beginning of this nation. How many relatives were lynched and slaughtered in the same spot she's been standing her entire life? Shouldn't she have known? Shouldn't she have been able to tell?

After they stood out there - her and Nova and Ralph Angel - after they vowed that they weren't going nowhere, the lot of them lingered out there. Charley had walked the length from the house to the field at least three times over. And she could have talked to her siblings about this, could have dug deeper into what they meant by sticking around and what this means for their future and how to best make this happen with the way that they live their lives, but honestly, the thought of actually physically talking right now feels like too much work. The act of existing right now feels like too much.

So she's back under her favorite tree, her sweater tossed beneath her to keep her pants from getting too messed up by the dirt. Her eyes keep focusing and unfocusing on her phone. Rejecting the part of her that still wants to reach out. The last time her brain stopped whirring was back in the storm, lying in that chair in Remy's arms. Don't get her wrong now; her brain whipped, raced, and roared at first, but after a moment or two, she had to let herself just be. But she doubts that she can let herself have that luxury right now.

Still, she glances back to her screen and the text she's barely begun.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 6:17p  
** / The land — my family's land — deserves a lot more respect than what I've offered it in the past.  
/ As do you.

She traces the edge of her phone after sending. Takes the moment to watch the wind through the leaves above her.

Remy's never once asked more of her than she could offer. He hasn't tried to use her, or told her off because he thinks that she thinks she's above him. Maybe it's just the type of man he is, or a product of living somewhere with such a strong community that genuinely cares about people. In LA, sure people care, but most of Charley's relationships there were based in mutual self-interests and supporting the team. Now the team supports themselves while she lives on the other side of the country with her rings in a sock.

Davis doesn't text her anymore. Doesn't call, or try reaching out through emails and Facebook messages that she never clicks on so he doesn't have the satisfaction of knowing she's read them. Charley can't quite tell if he still talks to Micah. If he does, Micah doesn't mention them to her anymore. Doesn't want to burden her maybe. Doesn't want to ask again about what happened.

Charley ruined another woman's life. That's what happened. She ruined that woman and allowed her love for Davis to blind her to even the possibility that something could have honestly gone wrong. But who could blame her? Who could be in a loving, healthy relationship like hers had seemed to be and genuinely consider that her husband could have an affair, for years, without her knowing? That-that he could have a mistress that he then later attempted to share with his younger players? That the father of her child, the supposed love of her life, could facilitate the rape of just another woman he'd managed to convince that he cared for?

Buzz.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 6:19p  
** / You could let me worry about what I deserve

The corner of her lips pulls up. She settles in a little more into her spot, imagines the way his eyes crinkle when he tries to say something smooth. He's always acting like she can't tell what he's doing, like she… doesn't care one way or the other if he calls her extraordinary and encourages her to take her time.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 6:20p  
** / And what is that exactly? What does the good lord, or the land, or say anyone in particular, owe to you?

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 6:22p  
** / No one owes me anything. But I'm a good man. I work hard to provide for and support the people I care about. Think that should bring me a little honesty, a little light every now and again

She actually smiles at that. She types, but God does she hope her smile goes through. Hopes he reads it from the front of his truck and hears the pull of her lips back over her teeth and the click of full enunciation on the end of the phrase.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 6:22p  
** / A little light

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 6:23p  
** / Yup. something to take my mind off the bad stuff, remind me of why it is that we do what we do

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 6:24p  
** / And what is that?

She worries her bottom lip after that one. Why is it that they do what they do? It's not necessarily obligation, but it certainly wasn't out of the kindness of her heart that she worked so hard her whole life. It wasn't about being a good person when she became a lawyer. It wasn't a need for justice that got her to stay here in NOLA. So, what's he thinking?

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 6:25p  
** / love  
/ I mean, what else is there, Charley?

"I don't know," she breathes. A lot. There's sadness and frustration, despair and this need to replay every moment she's had with her dad and Davis. Find the clues they must have dropped that she never paid attention to. She's smarter than this, she knows. She should've known. She should've put the pieces together and been here for her father rather than powering around in LA. She —

She types.  
/ Did you know about my daddy's land?  
Then deletes it. She asks.  
/ What's love got to do with any of this?  
Then deletes that too.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 6:27p  
** / But that's not why you're messaging me, is it?

She swallows down whatever words had been in her throat. Admits.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 6:28p  
** / I'm not so sure that I'll be leaving back to LA as soon as I thought. We might not sell. It's still really new, but… there's a lot we have to think about when it comes to this space.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 6:29p  
** / You okay?  
/ Need anything?

She shakes her head.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 6:31p  
** / I'm fine. Just reflecting is all. Being back here hasn't been what I had expected it to be, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad one.

She's halfway through writing another text when her phone buzzes.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 6:32p  
** / Call, if you want. I'm not busy.

Her chest opens up in a way that she hadn't prepared for. Breath comes in easier, and her eyes hood while she swipes over to immediately take this conversation into different territory. The call barely rings before he picks up.

Neither of them says anything at first. All she hears is the wind around her and the sound of car windows rolling. Down, she presumes, since there's still air moving on his side of the line as well. He's parked then. Not enough noise to be in a moving vehicle, and a little whir sounds like it's probably his breath against the receiver. He's going handheld. So is she.

He breaks the silence. Says, "You gonna keep talking, or are we just gonna breathe together?"

She hums. "Both sound pretty good to me."

"So," another breath on his part, a still on hers, but he finishes the thought, "You're not selling."

"We haven't decided yet. We just, we're leaning towards holding onto this a little longer. Until we know for sure what to do with it and how best to honor everyone who's lives were lost to keep it ours."

Then he hums. "They told you then, I'm guessing."

So he did know. "You…"

"It's not really a secret that your land cuts right through everything the Landrys own. Had to be a reason for it. Had to be something worth dealing with all of their crap."

A breathy sort of laugh slips out of her. "I hadn't really thought much on it. And now…." Her dad had their whole lives to tell them. He chose not to so that they could come to their own decisions, but imagine how awful it would've been to have found out after leaving. To have handed their land right over to the very people who had hung her great grandfather for daring to want it. Bile churns in her gut. Her fist comes to her lips instinctively, but she manages to swallow down the physical reflex. "I wanted things to get less complicated."

"They rarely ever do."

"And there you were saying that they'd been getting less so every day."

She can almost hear his head tick to the side as he says, "Now that's for me. That's not tied to anybody else, or some family legacy."

"A huge family legacy," she corrects.

"A huge family legacy. But Charley, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. If you think you can't work the land—"

"I didn't say that. How can you still think that I can't—"

"I didn't say that," he says. He pauses for a beat before continuing. "I said, if you think that you can't work the land, can't be out here full time, then do what you can and see how much Ralph Angel's willing and able to take on. You've still got plenty of time to prepare to keep it, and you're not exactly shy on willing volunteers."

"Right because there's a line out the door," she says. Between the deaths of Alejandro and Miguel and her own inclinations towards ignoring people's advice, there aren't a lot of people who will be here when she needs them to be.

"There could be," and he chuckles, "especially if you weren't so… what'd you call it? Certain?"

She runs her tongue over her teeth and pushes down on the ground for a moment. "Yes, that's what I called it." She's been certain her whole life. Even before she had the power and prestige to back it up, Charley couldn't back down from what she knew in herself to be right. It's part of why she and Nova clash so often. They can't both be right and neither wants to admit that they might not be.

Remy clicks his tongue. "It's cute, but it can be a bit much. You've got to concede a bit more. Follow through on your promise to listen to what I say with a 'yes, sir.'"

She laughs again. "Yes, sir."

"Mm, I could get used to the sound of that."

"Maybe I could too." She could find a place, or see about staying with Aunt Vi for a while longer. After she finds a way to get Micah in to school, she might even be able to handle letting him stay with Nova every once in a while. Assuage that part of him that wants to be free of her. Maybe spend those nights off with this good man who certainly wouldn't cheat on her with a sex worker. Or, she could work up to multiple nights alone with him.

She doesn't quite remember when she started toying with her sweater between her fingers. She stops when she notices how it makes her look — like a school girl flirting with her crush on the phone, like she's twirling the fabric and imagining it's his shirt or his hair or any part of him that she can get to. And as she stops, she scans for anyone who could've seen. Spots Nova, eyeing her from the house.

Charley gives a small wave to her sister, which Nova returns with a tilt of her own head.

One thing that Nova does have going for her is that Nova tends to take what she wants. Nova lives and shines in the grey areas of life, where fluidity and aura and what feels right take precedent over what might be seen as the noble choice. Nova dated a married man, then left him and found someone more her speed. Someone who brightens the spots that Nova wants to tend to, someone who left Micah smitten and scouring through activist artwork for hours the other day.

It's easier to call out Nova for making such rash decisions, for ruining lives and destroying boundaries that shouldn't even be touched, than it is to make some decisions of her own. Charley might not be completely ready to try something new, but what's the harm in trying? What's the harm in putting down more roots than just the sugar cane?

"Remy," and somehow the name lifts Charley's shoulders up a bit higher, and gives her the strength to keep her gaze with her family rather than away from it. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

He hesitates, weighing his words on his tongue. "Nothing that can't be moved around."

She nods. "I'd rather continue this conversation in person, if you wouldn't mind. Maybe over dinner somewhere."

"I could eat," he says, "if this is really about continuing the conversation. If it's about the farm, or how to keep getting the most out of the land, or—"

"It's not." It could be about anything they want. She can talk about Micah and what it's been like separating from all the parts of her that she left back in LA. He could talk about his research and about the rest of his family that she's never heard about. They could also not talk. Find somewhere quiet and just breathe together. Give in to the utter peace that his presence brings out in her. "It's not about anyone else." Only about her and rebuilding in a place that's seen so much loss.

Because that's the thing about the farm and about communities of color — they might take a beating, but they recover stronger than ever before. They stay primed for a better future and a larger harvest. They are abundant in love and blessings, and Charley figures that she might be due to see what happens if she stops seeking out the problems. If she lets go and allows herself to live and flourish.

"Alright." He claps his hand against something, his thigh maybe. "Tomorrow. I can pick you up."

"Good. Oh, and Remy?" She pauses long enough to hear his hum of acknowledgement. "We might be grown, but my son is not. And I doubt he would take too well to anything happening so soon."

"Of course."

He says it like he understands, like he might follow that train through to the inevitable clusterfuck that her moving on from Davis will be. Micah still doesn't know everything, and all he'll see is his mother jumping from one man to another. All he'll hear is the awful rhetoric that black women can't be single, or that men and women can't be friends. Or that no one can really be trusted in this world.

Her jaw tightens at the thought of his reaction. Her throat locks around the air inside of it, and she can almost hear the ringing of Micah's phone as he screams for his dad. Or the slam of the door as he rushes to go be with his aunt Nova who can do no wrong.

But the real Nova is waiting on the porch, staring out as Charley makes dinner plans. The real Nova held her hand and watched over their new opportunity without judgment, without question. Nova can't be a threat, even if Micah might use her as one.

"Good, then I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you then."

Charley clicks off the line and lowers her phone down beside her.

Nova calls out to her. "Vi wants a headcount! You hungry?"

"Yeah! I'll be right in!"

Nova nods, lingers to wait for her. So Charley pushes herself off the ground and picks up her phone and her sweater. She took her break, now it's time to head back in. Listen, love, and re-grow. After all, she is here to stay.

.

.


End file.
